


Shadowed Dreams

by LadyLysa



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angmar, Angst, Arnor, Character Study, Gondor, M/M, Romance on the Roads, Secret Mission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLysa/pseuds/LadyLysa
Summary: The power of Angmar is growing and spreading its blight on the lands surrounding it. Erestor and Glorfindel take long forbidden roads in probing the secrets kept in Angmar's depths - and in their own hearts.





	1. A Growing Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in 1350. In 1300, the evil realm Angmar rose under the dominion of the Witch-King, Leader of the Ringwraiths. Angmar's power has been growing steadily and it is now preparing for assault on the Northern Kingdoms... and on Rivendell itself.

T.A. 1350

Glorfindel was an enigma. Erestor, who prided himself in his ability to judge character, found him frighteningly difficult to place. Easy to talk to, always polite, but - somehow - always distant, always a little apart.

It had been so from the day he had come to Lindon. Tall and straight, his hair as an aureole of gold, shining around his lovely face. Erestor remembered that day like it was yesterday. All of Imladris had come to see the Balrog-slayer revived from the dead. It was whispered that he had come back a Maia (he had not, but Erestor sometimes noticed something “other” about him, as if he was not truly an Elf - as if he was something more). 

Erestor had hung back a little that day. He had little love for crowds or conversation and a reborn Balrog slayer to his practical mind, hardened by war and strife, constituted merely the confirmation of more trouble. As Gil-galad and Elrond went to welcome him, Erestor gazed at him critically. His worth to Gil-galad lay in his ability to read people as they were, strip them of pretension and lies through careful words and searching gazes that cut through quick. Later, Erestor would interrogate Glorfindel, now he merely looked. 

His beauty seemed to shine from inside of him, as if some inner lamp lighted the perfect beauty of his features. Erestor had seen Glorfindel only once before, an age past, when he had been a youth in Hithlum, short years before Turgon’s host had migrated to the Hidden City. Striking even then, Glorfindel’s beauty seemed to have been refined by death. Before, his beauty had been the loud and boisterous kind, a thing immediately obvious and very aware, marked by rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, merry smiles, and a voice that laughed even as it spoke. And of course his golden hair, which he had kept free then, immediately marking him among the sable haired, grey eyed Noldor.  
Now, his smile was more wistful and gentle rather than merry, and his voice, though still with an undercurrent of joy within it, was serious and sweet. The sparkle in his eyes had been tamed and there was now a great wisdom in them, and with it, a great sorrow. In Glorfindel’s eyes, Erestor would later realize, the tale of his years was written. Only his hair had stayed the same, tumbling golden and defiant down his back. 

His raiment was fine, but simple, made in muted colors that somehow yet suited him. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a fine sword, almost hidden by his robe. Although his posture was easy and his voice steady and measured, the hand sometimes trembled a little and fidgeted, as if it was not used to being needed. At the last minute, after Gil-galad welcomed him, Glorfindel glanced up and his eyes met Erestor’s. 

Erestor’s heart felt as if it had been pierced and his hand flew up to touch his chest gently, marveling at the wholly alien sensation. For that one long moment, the world narrowed to him and Glorfindel, to those blue eyes which had been so merry, but now held such grief and such wisdom. The moment broke as Gil-galad touched Glorfindel on the arm and led him forward. The crowd moved with him, leaving Erestor alone on the dais, his heart hammering in his chest and blood rushing in his ears. 

In later years, Erestor would look back on that moment and marvel at himself at not recognizing what had happened. But then, he chose to deny it and forget, and imagine that he had imagined it. Erestor, cool and steady as he had been all his life, had never liked fire and shied away from it even as he just barely felt its heat. He kept his interactions with Glorfindel professional and polite, as indeed it seemed Glorfindel preferred, besieged as he was with admirers and would-be lovers. But still, Erestor’s eyes often wandered to Glorfindel before he could catch himself. 

And so the years slipped by, as easily and relentlessly as water. Gil-galad’s suspicions in Ost-in-Edhil were true and the destruction of that fair city marked the beginning of the open evil that spread through Middle Earth like a disease. Numenor fell and Erestor comforted Elrond, whose grief exacerbated a wound that would never truly heal. The Last Alliance was created and ended with glory and tragedy, for the evil was defeated at the cost of thousands of lives, not least that of the wise and true Elven King who would be the last in Middle Earth. 

And through it all, Erestor persisted, though sometimes, he felt as if he would rather die. And through it all, Glorfindel was there, lending his strength and light to whoever came near… and Erestor often found himself near, desperately needing that golden light for succor during the darkest of times, though he never came near enough for Glorfindel to notice. Sometimes, he wondered who succored Glorfindel as the evil encroached and Erestor wondered at how easily Glorfindel gave himself to others, while never asking anything for himself. 

In Imladris and the beginning of peace in the Third Age, Erestor could no longer find distractions in strife. He often found himself watching Glorfindel… at his long, tapered fingers that were just as home on a harp as on a knife (once on a blue moon, Glorfindel was persuaded to play long forgotten tunes from the First Age and the entirety of Imladris would listen spellbound)... at his dreamy, shadowy blue eyes that had seen so much and yet preserved their wonder.... Listened to his soft voice with its timbre of strength. 

Perhaps then Erestor would have recognized his feelings. But everyone watched Glorfindel and it was counted no strange thing to have one’s breath stolen by him and it was a rare Elf who was not attracted to him. So Erestor ignored his feelings and they settled into an undercurrent that became a part of his being, rarely acknowledged but always present. 

Glorfindel himself remained a mystery. Many in Imladris prided themselves on being close friends with the Balrog slayer, but none, Erestor noticed, could even tell without doubt what his favorite color was (it was black and white, Erestor found out one day. He had lived and died in brightness and now took comfort in empty shades). Erestor discovered it one day when a trader from Harad brought fine, foreign fabrics to choose from. Glorfindel’s hand hesitated a little too long over a cloth of deepest black before resignedly moving to one of silky green. The pause lasted less than a second, but Erestor, who noticed everything, did not fail to notice this.

Erestor spoke but little to him, for words had never been his strength and it was only rarely that they met outside of work hours, for their lives and friends were different. Erestor was of the quiet of the libraries and conversations over dinner and sweet wine, and the smell of parchment and old books. Glorfindel was of the heat of the battle, the camaraderie of brothers in arms, the sheen of frost-bright steel, the bitter beer and hard mortal liquors of soldiers. (Although, Erestor had to notice, Glorfindel was never truly at ease in these situations, though he partook of them willingly). 

It was long indeed before they would meet as anything other than colleagues, and strangely enough, it was Glorfindel who changed their interaction. 

For years, Erestor had been aware of some encroaching evil after a long millennium of peace. But now that evil had been given a name and a face in the form of the Witch King of Angmar. Angmar had become a cruel and strange place, built as it was on the ruins of a Numenorean kingdom. The ghosts of the past infiltrated it and mixed with the evil of the present. It was whispered that twisted creatures and demons lived within its crumbling walls and black sorcery infused the air. The only men that lived in Angmar were deformed and monstrous… save its King.

It was with this in mind that Elrond called a private council with his two most trusted advisors. His eyes were troubled as he gazed at the window, to the East where Angmar stood. “You know why I have called you here then?” he murmured, letting his gaze drift back to where Glorfindel and Erestor sat, Erestor with his back ramrod straight and looking intently at Elrond, Glorfindel slouching a little with his eyes half closed and his head cocked. 

“Angmar,” Erestor said softly. 

Elrond moved away from the window and shut the curtains. His face was shadowed when he looked back at them and his face was weary and lined with echoes of long suppressed grief. His hand moved to touch his Ring, as if to draw strength from it. This troubled Erestor for he had little trust in magic and less with that touched by the sorcery of Sauron. 

“Its power grows by the day,” Elrond said. “The Witch-King’s sorcery already blights the land around it and the last messengers from Arthedain bring word that beasts flee from Angmar’s plains. I can no longer ignore it, for even now, I feel its eye turning to the remnants of Arnor… perhaps even to Rivendell.”

“The strike may come afore even we suspect,” Glorfindel said suddenly, his eyes distant. “The Witch-King has lived - and hated - for long and his arm grows mighty.”

Elrond’s face was drained of color, but he his voice did not waver. “It is a hard thing that I must ask you to do, my dear dear friends. There are few Elves and fewer Men who can stand against the evil pervading that realm and danger haunts every footstep. You are free to refuse this task, for only a madman would do it willingly.”

“Then we are madmen, Elrond, for we would follow you unto death,” Erestor said, though a frisson of fear moved down his spine. 

Elrond closed his eyes as if in pain. “Then I would ask you to go to Angmar secretly and probe its secrets, for we know little to nothing of it and danger looms nearer by the day. I do not dare send others.”

Erestor stared unseeingly at the wall for a long moment, traced the fine woodwork with his eyes. He had expected this, but was still unprepared for what he would face.

“I shall go,” Glorfindel said, voice soft but strong. “I should be honored if Master Erestor would accompany me, though I understand if I must go alone.”

This snapped Erestor out of his daze. “Certainly I will go,” he said, sharper than he intended. “It is my duty, both to Middle Earth and to you, my Lord.”

Elrond passed his hand over his face, grey with worry and exhaustion and nodded.


	2. Tangled Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before a journey can even be attempted, a thousand preparations must be made and certain good-byes said.

He looked around his room, his for three millennia. Erestor allowed his eyes to trace every feature, every detail in the woodwork, for he knew there was a very real chance that he would never see it again. His delicately wrought balcony, where Lindir had composed many a tune (his mocking, impudent face refusing to leave even as Erestor ordered him out)... his elegant, oak carved parlor that was usually filled with weary faces (for Erestor never closed his doors to those seeking peace)... his private library and sitting area where only his closest friends found entrance… all of this might be lost to him after this day.

He was no Galadriel and had no foresight of the future, save a chill that crept up his spine whenever he looked to the East. Wherever he turned, there was only Angmar in his sight, mocking him, taunting him with tendrils of evil. What few reports came of the Witch-king said that he was a foul, phantom-like creature, no longer a Man in a sense of the word. Others said that he was a ghoul or a twisted Maia. No one even whispered that he could be Sauron, though Erestor had seen him fall with his own eyes (for how could a Maia truly die?), though Erestor knew that the thought lingered in the back of Elrond’s mind. 

At least he had Glorfindel with him. Though it shamed him to admit cowardice even in such a task, Erestor could not help but be comforted by the presence of that raw, pure golden power. Glorfindel… there lay another problem. Their journey had to be cowled in the strictest secrecy and none could ever mistake Glorfindel as anything other than a great Elvenlord. Even without that thick mane of spun-gold hair, the extraordinary fairness of Glorfindel’s countenance could hardly be hidden. 

Erestor himself, though possessed of traditional Elven looks, did not fool himself to be a great and immediately recognizable beauty. There were few who would question a common Elven messenger on his way to a realm of the Dunedain. Glorfindel, however…. 

This worry troubled Erestor so much that he made his way to ascertain Glorfindel’s plans. He had no mean opinion of the warrior’s intelligence, but his embarrassment quailed under his greater wish to live to see Valinor. 

He knocked timidly at Glorfindel’s door for never before had he a reason to enter his chambers. Glorfindel opened it, his eyebrows rising only slightly when he saw who it was.  
“I wished to discuss our journey,” Erestor said, by way of explanation. 

“Of course, come in,” Glorfindel said, voice as smooth and cool as a stream. 

“You are already packed, I trust?” Erestor asked, hurriedly, glancing at the neatly packed bags near the door. 

“Yes, I should hope so as we are leaving tomorrow,” Glorfindel said evenly.

“Ah, of course.” Erestor inwardly cursed himself. He had not meant to sound condescending. 

“I simply wondered,” he murmured, “that as we are leaving on a clandestine mission – “

“You are wondering about my hair, then?” For the first time, Glorfindel’s face betrayed a flicker of amusement. “I was planning on using my standard solution for such things. I shall show you and you can see if it is appropriate for the situation.”

Erestor took the time to observe the room as he waited on Glorfindel. The apartments were spacious and had been comfortably, if impersonally, furnished when given to Glorfindel nearing three thousand years ago (Erestor himself had picked out the apartment). In the intervening time, Glorfindel had done little to personalize the space. There was a weapons rack near the side of the room and the furniture was well made, but simple, in warm tones and solid build. The rooms were shaded by heavy curtains, which Erestor found odd considering the day outside was lovely and not overly bright. There was no hint of the green and gold that had once been the colors of Glorfindel’s House in long-ago Gondolin and the only flowers that he kept were delicate white lilies in a vase half hidden by the window curtains. The chambers were not at all what Erestor expected.

Meanwhile Glorfindel returned, holding an odd-shaped glass bottle and a robe of some heavy black material. In response to Erestor’s questioning look, Glorfindel said, “Black dye and a cloak and hood that covers the best part of the vase. It is customary of traders and priests from the Far East to wear these… and most Westermen consider them sorcerers. People will distrust me, but it is wondrous how far fear of sorcerers can get you.”

Erestor stared at him. This was not what he had expected.

Glorfindel laughed at his silence. “Did you think me too noble for deception, Master Erestor?”

“I confess it does not seem like a very Balrog-slayer-like thing to do.”

Glorfindel smiled, a little sadly, but he said lightly, “I suppose a Balrog slayer would simply slay anyone who bid him nay?”

“That sounds appropriate.”

Leaving Glorfindel’s chambers, he was caught by Lindir. The minstrel’s fair face uncharacteristically worried and his eyes troubled. “I heard from Elrond that you and Lord Glorfindel are going on a visit to Arthedain for matters of political importance?”

Erestor had not heard this, but he nodded anyways. It was not strictly untrue. They would go to Arthedain after Angmar if all went well.

Lindir’s face did not grow less troubled. “It is not only to Arthedain you are going, is it?” he asked, his voice low and tense. Erestor had once heard a rapturous audience member describing Lindir’s voice as an untarnished crystal and thought the description suited well. Every word he spoke was like a phrase of music. The perfect tone of it never faltered and Erestor had never heard it strike a false note. But now it’s tone had gone from a major key to a minor and shook a little in fear.

“Is it?” Lindir asked again, more insistently. Erestor looked at him closely. 

Elrond was perhaps his closest friend, but it was with Lindir that he had shivered with in the army tents, foraged in the wild, and fought alongside in the heat of the battle. It was with Lindir that he confided his deepest fears and griefs, and whose shoulder he wept on when his father and brother died. He could not lie to Lindir. 

He shook his head mutely. A shudder passed through Lindir and he said tightly. “I thought not. I know that perhaps you cannot tell me where your mission… but I can guess.” He clutched Erestor’s shoulder tightly and Erestor was suddenly brought back to the time thousands of years ago when he and Lindir had been two young, frightened orphans together, friendless save for each other. “Be careful, Erestor. You are dearer to me than even a brother and I do not what I would do without your friendship. Would that I could go with you!”

“Do not wish that! Never wish that. You are meant to be here, to comfort and bring hope to Rivendell with your gift.”

“What a gift it is!” Lindir said bitterly, “I cannot protect my dearest friend with it.”

Erestor shook his head. “You have done so much for over the years and you are my brother in all but blood. It would give me the greatest comfort if you are here and safe.” 

To this, Lindir had no answer, but his eyes glimmered with tears and he pulled Erestor close in an embrace.

\----

Erestor was walking back to his office after an early dinner when a glimmer of gold from outside caught his eye. He squinted out the window and saw Glorfindel practicing his swordplay in the training grounds. Even from afar, his skills were obvious as he slashed and parried with expert ease and his opponent was doing all he could in attempting to keep up. It was only a matter of seconds that a sword was flicked away, gleaming silver in the sun and Glorfindel stood triumphant, the tip of his sword at his opponent’s throat. 

Truly, Erestor thought, the Captain of Imladris was a sight to behold. He had left his long golden hair in a simple braid, with a few loose strands from the fight. It glowed in the sunlight, seeming almost to emit its own light. Erestor felt a sudden, impractical rush of sorrow that such glory would have to be obscured for their trip. He was also reminded, with a sudden frisson of worry, that he had trained as much as perhaps would be needed as it was only seldom that Erestor had found it necessary to wield weaponry, although he had once been as deadly as any Elven soldier. He promised himself to go down to the training yard in the few remaining days until his journey. Perhaps, he would ask one of the Sons of Elrond to spar with him (although it would preferably be Elladan, as Elrohir was sometimes possessed of fey rages that made him a dangerous and unpredictable opponent even in training). 

He started when a sweet voice called his name. Turning, he saw Celebrian smiling at him. He smiled back, helpless, for Celebrian had that effect on people. The Lady of Rivendell was the light of the House, her silver hair and blue eyes standing apart from the more common black and grey. In years past, when Elrond was submerged in black grief from the multitude of sorrows that had come in his path, it was only Celebrian who could lighten his heart and bring him joy. For that, Erestor would forever be grateful to her. 

“I heard of your journey,” she said, her voice like pure silver lined with worry. “It is a cruel road ahead of you and there is but little I can do to help. There is one thing I wish to give you though it may be only a token.” She handed him a pendant made of some breathtakingly beautiful alien gemstone that caught even a hint of light and scattered it in a thousand colors. “It was given to my mother by the Queen of Doriath, Lady Melian the Maia. She said it succored her in dark times and perhaps it will succor you as well. I have no need of it here in Rivendell. Of course,” she said, suddenly, “It may be but a foolish sentiment.”

Erestor’s fingers closed over the precious stone. “No, my Lady, it is a priceless gift that you have given me and I would quite honestly take any possibility of succor against the road ahead of us.”

Celebrian smiled. “Then I pray it will bring you as much comfort as it once did me, and before me, my mother.”  
\---------

The next morning (two days before their quest was set to begin, Erestor realized with a shiver), the messengers brought word that the Sons of Elrond had returned from the wild. Both Elladan and Elrohir had inherited the hungry, adventurous blood of their Noldorin forebears and often journeyed to lands afar. This time, they had gone East, almost to Angmar, though Elrond had forbidden them to enter that accursed place. Their reports would be invaluable. 

Erestor was on his way to the private council Elrond had called, when he was hailed with a shout and the Sons of Elrond waylaid him with a greeting. Very alike they were, these two sons of Elrond and both were nigh inseparable. But it was easy to tell them apart if one knew them well. Though they were both dark of hair and grey of eye, Elladan’s laugh was lighter, his gait lighter, and his smiles freer. Elrohir was often sunk in melancholy, and his eyes were often shadowed with a sorrow that was not his. Sometimes, Erestor found that he saw Elros when he looked into Elrohir’s eyes.

Elladan grinned a greeting at him, while Elrohir’s salutation was more subdued, but no less fervent. They loved and respected their old tutor and friend well. 

Elrond was already standing when they entered and Glorfindel’s splendid head was tilted to the side as he listened intently to what Elrond was saying. He nodded a greeting to Erestor and a welcome to the twins. 

It was Elladan who took the lead in their explanation, while Elrohir interjected information that his brother missed. “There were a great many orcs on the roads, far more than we remembered from the last time we took these roads. Perhaps they are simply multiplying since Rhudaur or perhaps they were called by some dark power, it is impossible to say. However, there is an evil spreading and there was an unnatural chill in the air. Even the Dwarves of Moria spoke of dark omens and a greater prevalence of disaster and ill luck. Angmar is a land enshrouded (no Father, we did not enter it). We witnessed it from afar and watched it for a week and a day and the dark, heavy fog around it would not relent. There were creatures in the distance, though whether they were human, we cannot say. The land surrounding it is rife with infestation and abandoned villages. But more than that, there is something in the air, something rotted and insidious.”

There was a silence after Elladan finished speaking. Erestor thought idly that Elladan had a gift for description. 

“Well,” Glorfindel said, breaking the silence, “I look forward to seeing it.” 

His words served to break the tension and even Elrohir deigned to crack a smile. The rest of the meeting was dedicated to long hours of planning and modification due to Elladan and Elrohir’s new knowledge of the journey. When Erestor went to bed after several hours, he was too exhausted to even obsess over everything that could go wrong (and likely would).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while... but Life got in the way :( I hope you all like it! (Another reason is binge-watching/reading ASOIAF/GOT - so tempted to do a LOTR/ASOIAF crossover now!)

**Author's Note:**

> This is certainly different from what I usually write! But hopefully, it's still enjoyable. 
> 
> Something to keep in mind is that this is just as much a romance and character study as an adventure of sorts. It will also not be completely dark and gloom, I promise! Erestor and Glorfindel are still Erestor and Glorfindel, placed only in a different 'verse ;) This IS primarily an Erestor/Glorfindel story after all!


End file.
